A CUBAN CONVENT.
Without the Walls--'El Torno'--A Convent Letter--Accomplices--A
Powder Plot--With the Nuns--Don Francisco the Dentist.
My creole inamorata has been already immured five long weeks in the
nunnery, expiating there her 'sin' of secret love-making. Nearly five
months must yet elapse before she will be released and restored to her
stern parent Don Severiano: that is, if the nuns' report of her be
favourable; but should the efforts of those estimable ladies prove
unsuccessful, and Cachita persist in following the inclinations of her
heart, the term of her incarceration will be protracted another six
months, when, in accordance with conventual discipline, she will be
required to commence her duties as a novice.
Desirous of ascertaining how far monastic confinement has affected my
Cachita's sentiments, I propose to sound her on the subject by private
communication. Tunicu, whom I consult, tells me that this is not easily
accomplished, and I soon find that his statement is correct. The convent
is a strong building. At fixed hours the outer doors are thrown open,
and disclose a small stone ante-chamber, furnished with wooden benches
like a prison. Here may a pilgrim enter, but no further. There is
another and a stronger door, communicating with the interior, and
accessible only to a favoured few. Near it is a panelled or blind
window, forming part of a 'torno' or turnstile--a mechanical contrivance
by means of which articles for the convent use are secretly admitted.
On more than one occasion have I visited the torno, in the vain hope of
persuading the invisible door-keeper behind to receive some love-tokens
for my captive mistress. Tapping three times on the hollow window, I
pause until a voice murmurs 'Ave Maria!' to which I respond, being well
versed in conventual watchwords, 'Por mis pecados!' The voice inquires
my pleasure. If it be my pleasure to have a missive conveyed to an
immured 'sister,' and I can satisfy my unseen interlocutor by
representing myself as a relative of the captive lady in whom I am
interested, the turnstile rotates with magic velocity, the flat panel
vanishes, and, behold, a species of cupboard with many shelves, upon
which anything of a moderate size may be placed. Having deposited my
letter on one of the shelves, it disappears, with the cupboard, like a
pantomime trick, and the panelled window resumes its original dull
aspect. But whether my document will reach the rightful owner, I can
never ascertain, for days elapse, and no reply is forthcoming. Varying
my proceedings at the torno, I sometimes express a desire to exchange a
few greetings with my cloistered love, by meeting her in a certain
chamber appointed for such a purpose, and conversing with her through a
double grating. But the door-keeper informs me that such a privilege is
accorded to parents only of the immured, who can prove their identity;
so my effort in that direction is a failure.
At Tunicu's suggestion, every Sunday morning I visit the convent chapel
which is attached to the building itself, and is open to the public at
prescribed hours. The chapel is a bare-looking sanctuary of small
dimensions, and easily crowded by a score or two of ladies with white
veils, who come to pay their devotions from the neighbouring houses. At
one extremity of the white-washed chamber is an altar-piece, before
which a priest, assisted by a boy, officiates, and to the left is a
strongly-barred window connected with the interior of the convent.
Behind this window, which is heavily curtained as well as railed, stand
the nuns and other inmates of the cloister, who have come to take part
in the ceremonies. The responses are chanted by this invisible
congregation in a subdued tone. During a certain portion of the
ceremonies, the curtain is partially drawn, and the outline of a thickly
veiled devotee is discerned as she bends forward to kiss the priest's
hand and to receive his blessing. I envy the ecclesiastic, and gaze with
eager interest, as figure after figure approaches in turn; but my sight
cannot penetrate the dark recesses of the curtain, and the lady whom I
seek comes and disappears unrecognised.
I am aroused early one morning by a black messenger, who delivers me a
thick letter, which I open nervously, for I find it comes from the
'Convento de la Ensenanza.' The writing, though the contents savour
strongly of monastic diction, is certainly in Cachita's hand, and is
signed by herself.
'My dream of happiness,' the letter begins, 'can no longer be realised.
My conscience, my teachers, and my father-confessor, all persuade me
that I have sinned in the outer world, and that if I desire to be
absolved, I must repent without delay. Exhorted by the worthy nuns, I
am daily becoming more alive to a sense of my unworthiness, and
convinced of the urgent necessity for beginning a new life of holiness
and virtue. Guided to this blessed convent by the finger of Providence,
I have been enabled, with the assistance of the best of counsel, to
reflect seriously over what has happened, and I have now taken a vow
never again to act from the impulse of my young and inexperienced
heart.'
After dwelling upon the enormity of the offence of making love without
the approval of a parent, the writer exhorts me, by my 'mother,' and by
other people whom I 'hold dear,' to return her letters, and all other
evidence of the past, with the assurance that by so doing I shall
accomplish one important step towards the 'termination of the sad story
of this ill-begotten wooing' (para completar la triste historia de ese
amor desgraciado).
The letter concludes as follows:--
'Perhaps you will receive a parting word from me' (the present document
occupies exactly eight pages of closely written convent paper), 'which
will put an end to this unfortunate story. You must, then, forget me
entirely. Look upon the past as a dream, an illusion, a flash of
happiness which is no more. Never must the name of Cachita escape your
lips. I shall remember you only in my prayers' (the word 'only' is
erased with pencil). 'Fail not to send the letters. And adios! till we
meet in heaven.--CARIDAD.'
The bearer of this letter is Guadalupe, a slave of Cachita's father, Don
Severiano, and she is intrusted with messages to and from the convent.
Twice a week she visits the torno cupboard, charged with changes of
linen and other articles for her young mistress's use. Everything is
carefully examined by a nun, before being consigned to its owner; so
Tunicu's ingenious notion of conveying by this opportunity something
contraband to the fair prisoner cannot be entertained.
Having bribed Guadalupe with a bundle of cigars and a coloured
handkerchief for a turban, I obtain from her, in return, some
intelligence of her young mistress.
'Have you heard how la Nina Cachita fares?' I inquire.
'Badly,' says the negress. 'The monastic life does not agree with her
lively disposition, and she yearns for freedom again, la pobre!'
'Then the nuns have not succeeded in converting her?'
'I think not, miamo. In a letter to her mother, Dona Belen, who has
still a good opinion of your worship, mi amita Cachita ridicules the
Monjas (nuns), and describes their strange ways.'
'Has Don Severiano expressed his intention to release la Nina at the
expiration of her allotted six months?'
'I believe so; but even then, it will be nearly five long months before
she can be with us again!'
The most important information which I draw from the communicative black
is, that my medical friend, Don Francisco, who is a dentist as well as a
doctor, is attending my beloved for professional purposes. I resolved to
call upon Don Francisco, and when Guadalupe has taken her departure with
a packet containing a selection from Cachita's letters, and one of my
own, which I have carefully worded, in case it should fall into wrong
hands, I repair at once to the house of my medical friend.
Don Francisco sympathises with me, and promises to aid me in a plan
which I have conceived for communicating by letter with my absent
mistress; but he warns me that there are many difficulties in the way of
doing so.
'The nuns,' he says, 'who accompany my patient, stand like a couple of
sentinels on each side of her, and no word or gesture escapes their
attentive ears and watchful gaze. He must have more than a conjuror's
hand who can perform any epistolary feat and escape their keen
observation.'
The allusion to conjuring reminds me of my scheme.
Will Don Francisco recommend to his patient a box of his registered
tooth-powder?
He will be delighted to have that opportunity.
'One of my assistants who accompanies me in my convent rounds shall
include such a box in my dentist's bag.'
Don Francisco sees through my 'little powder plot,' as he calls it, and
hands me a box of his patented tooth-powder, beneath which I afterwards
carefully deposit a billet-doux.
But Don Francisco can improve upon my scheme, and staggers me with his
new idea.
'You shall deliver the box yourself!' says he.
The convent rules, he explains, allow him to introduce an assistant, or
'practicante,' as he is called. The same practicante does not always
accompany him in his semi-weekly visits to the convent.
'As I am about to visit La Cachita for dental purposes only,' says the
considerate gentleman, 'you shall on this occasion act as my
practicante.'
Early next morning we are on the threshold of the sacred ground. Don
Francisco boldly enters the stone ante-chamber, which I have so often
timidly approached, and taps with a firm knuckle on the torno.
'Ave Maria Purisima!' murmurs the door-keeper from behind.
'Pecador de mi!' (sinner as I am) replies the practised Don.
'Que se ofrece usted?' (what is your pleasure?) inquires the voice. And
when the dentist has satisfied the door-keeper's numerous demands, a
spring door flies open, and we step into a narrow passage. Here we
remain for some moments, while our persons are carefully identified
through a perforated disc. Then another door opens, the mysterious
door-keeper appears and conducts us into the very core of the convent.
As we look over the convent garden, which is tastefully laid out with
tropical plants and kitchen stuff, a thickly veiled nun approaches us.
The lady seems to be on familiar terms with the dentist, whom she
addresses in a mild, soothing tone, as if she were administering words
of comfort to a sick person. We follow her through a narrow corridor,
where I observe numerous doors, which I am told give access to the
apartments or cells occupied by the convent inmates. We pass a chamber
where children's voices are heard. There is a school attached to the
convent, for the benefit of those who desire their offspring to receive
religious instruction from the nuns. Music and fancy needlework are also
taught, and some of the distressed damsels, who, like Cachita, are
undergoing a term of conventual imprisonment for similar offences,
impose upon themselves a mild form of hard labour by assisting to
improve the infant mind. Cachita, who is a good musician, takes an
active part in this branch of education.
At last we are ushered into a gloomy, white-washed apartment
(everything in the convent appears to be of wood and whitewash), where
our guide takes leave of us.
While the dentist, assisted by his practicante, is arranging his
implements for tooth-stopping on a deal table, which, together with a
couple of wooden chairs, constitute the furniture of this cheerless
chamber, an inner door is thrown open, and a couple of nuns, attired in
sombre black, enter with Don Francisco's fair patient. Cachita is
dressed in spotless white, a knotted rope suspended from her girdle, and
a yellowish veil affixed in such a manner to her brow as to completely
conceal her hair, which, simple practicante though I be, I know is dark,
soft, and frizzled at the top. Her pretty face is pale, and already
wears (or seems to wear) the approved expression of monastic
resignation.
At Don Francisco's suggestion, I carefully conceal my face while Cachita
seats herself between the sentinel nuns.
The dentist, with a presence of mind which I emulate but little,
commences his business of tooth-stopping, pausing in his work to
exchange a few friendly words with his patient and the amicable nuns.
Hitherto my services have not been in requisition; but anon the subject
of the tooth-powder is introduced.
Will La Cachita allow the dentist to recommend her a tooth-powder of his
own preparation?
Cachita is in no immediate need of such an article, but the dentist is
persuasive, and the young lady is prevailed upon to give the powder a
trial.
'You will derive much benefit from its use,' observes Don Francisco. 'My
assistant' (and here the cunning tooth-stopper, being close to his
patient's ear, whispers my name) 'will bring it you presently.'
'What ails la Nina?' inquires one of the nuns, bending forward; for
Cachita has uttered a cry, and swooned away.
'Nothing, senora,' says Don Francisco with the same sang-froid already
noted. 'Only a nerve which I have accidentally excited in my operation.
She will be better presently.'
The dentist desires me to bring him a certain bottle, and with the
contents of this, his patient is soon restored to consciousness.
'Keep her head firm,' says my artful friend, addressing me with a faint
smile on his countenance, 'while I put the finishing touches to my
work.'
I obey; and though my hands are far from being as steady as an
assistant's should be, I acquit myself creditably.
Cachita's mouth is again open to facilitate the dentist's operations,
but also, as it seems to me, in token of surprise at the apparition now
bending over her.
'You will find much relief in the use of this tooth-powder,' continues
my friend, in a careless tone, as though nothing had happened. 'Very
strengthening to the gums. When you have got to the bottom of the
box--just open your mouth a little wider--when you have got to the
bottom of the box--where' (he whispers) 'you will find a note--I will
send you another.'
Cachita, by this time accustomed to my presence, can now look me
fearlessly in the face with those expressive eyes of hers, which I can
read so well, and before the dentist's operations are over, we have
contrived, unobserved, to squeeze hands on three distinct occasions.
Assured by this means of my lover's constancy, I now take my leave of
her, and, advised by my friends, patiently await the term of her convent
captivity, which expires, as I have already stated, in four months and
three weeks.
Upwards of three of these months elapse and I hear nothing more of the
fair recluse, and during that long interval many strange and unexpected
events transpire as to the 'Ever-faithful Isle.'